


Picture Show

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Jokes, Embedded Images, Gen, Innuendo, M/M, NSFW Art, of dicks, this is a dick pic fic approach with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5631385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>North clears his throat. “Speaking of which, I should tell you– I’d appreciate it if you didn’t send me any more inappropriate pictures.”</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is not the dick pic fic that the fandom deserves, but it is the dick pic fic that I am supplying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Show

 The first time it happens, North thinks he's made a mistake.

The data pad, along with everything else he and South were issued (and it _was_ everything-- armor, uniform, kit and civvies and daily vitamin packs and toiletries down to the MOI-labeled dental floss canisters) is proprietary military technology, and he hasn't the slightest idea how to use it. He ran the tutorial program as soon as he could find a spare moment, but although the ship's prime AI, FILSS, seems very nice North got a little tired of her informing him of every conceivable application he could run with the little device (everything from tracking his basal metabolic rate and energy expenditure down to the fraction of a calorie to accessing every public database in tight-beam range) and asked her to stick to the basics.

So now he runs the basics, but sometimes he swipes wrong or breathes wrong or god _knows_ what, and something he can't understand will pop up. And Director Church is, as far as North can tell, kind of an odd duck-- very interested in efficiency. North wouldn't put it past him to have some kind of pornography application installed on operatives' personal mobiles, for stress relief purposes. Or something.

 

  


 

 

It doesn't really look like porn, though, is the thing. It's just a picture of a dick. A nice enough dick, but not a silver screen dick. Just an average, unassuming, almost cute little cock, flaccid and soft and nestled up with its balls against a hairy thigh. And the lighting is clearly not professional. North has a moment of terror when he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is some kind of test. He's only met with the Counselor once, for a forty-five minute session, and all they really talked about was some early childhood stuff and North's experience with managing on-the-job stress. Surely that hadn't been enough for him to, he doesn't know, ascertain North's _porn preferences_. It's freakishly feasible, though. North imagines telling Aiden Pryce about the time South pushed him off a swing set and he cracked his head, and Pryce's little notepad translating that into 'gay amateur soft-core', or something. Christ, what a nightmare.

North glances back at the screen, unsure how to make it go away. It really is a nice little dick. Friendly looking. Doesn't make his mouth water, or anything, but he wouldn't mind playing with it a little, firming it up with his hand to see whether it grew any. Leg looks nice, too, what he can see of it. It's just not exactly the right time, to be presented with a penis.

"Maybe later," he tells it. "FILSS, how do I close this?"

 

* * *

 

North doesn't encounter the dick again until their second week on the MOI. He's pretty much forgotten about it, actually, so when his data pad beeps while he's eating at the mess next to South, he hardly expects, when he swipes the screensaver away in full view of the table, to be revealing a stranger's naked crotch to the cafeteria.

 

  


 

 

"Woah-ho-ho," South gasps, and covers her face with her hands, one of which is still holding a fork and thus trailing noodles across her tray. "Not while I'm eating. I see enough of this in the locker room."

North flushes full-body, taps furiously at the screen. Nothing seems to make it go away. "Wait, wait--" He's only looking because he needs to find the 'quit' button, not because-- last time FILSS did it for him, he should have asked how, shit shit _shit_ \--

Connecticut leans in on her elbows across the table. "Oh. You got Yorked."

"He got what?" One of these days North is going to have to tell South how obvious it is that she hangs on Agent Connecticut's every word. Not yet, though. He's going to let it get a little bit more embarrassing, first.

"I didn't do anything!" North cries, and finally just gives up, covering the screen with his hand. He can still see through his fanned fingers, though, and it's definitely the same dick. Hard this time, plumped up and dark with blood at the tip and leaning cheerily against a well-defined stomach. Yeah, definitely a grower. "I didn't press anything! How do I make it go away?"

Connecticut reaches across the table with her thin, delicate little hand to take the data pad from him. "You can't. He's probably cracked your machine." She tilts the screen up to see it better. "Wow, he's really trying, with you. What an honor."

"'With him'? Does he do this to _everyone_?" South shudders. "How do I stop it? I never want to see that again, I was promised that when I left high school I could pre-select any and all genitalia I have to witness, who lied to me--"

"Relax," Connecticut tells her. "York knows you're not interested in anything he's offering."

"That's _York's_?" North sputters, at the same time as South sputters "Wait, did he send _you_ one?"

Connecticut shrugs. "Think of it as a welcome to the team. It's kind of his thing. Just tell him to fuck off and he'll stop. "

South looks appalled. "But. But he sent _you_ one?"

"What do you mean he's 'really trying'?" North wonders.

He doesn't know Agent New York very well; they've spoken a few times, and trained together, but North's mostly hung close to his sister since they joined the MOI crew, and since South was sticking to Connecticut like a burr that meant they'd been unofficially grouped in with Maine and Wash, rather than Carolina, York, and Wyoming. It wasn't cliquish, exactly, but there were clear friendship groups even among the elites, and while York had always been friendly and welcoming towards North he'd never made any significant overtures. Except, apparently, for the dick pics. Plural.

"And I told him to fuck off," Connecticut says, and turns the data pad towards North. "See the lighting? And the angle? He's shot it from below so it looks bigger. And if it were just a quick snap the light would be behind him, but he's found something for front lighting, so you get all that detail."

North can feel his blush getting deeper. It _is_ very detailed-- soft, crinkly hair around the base with obvious veins lacing up the shaft. And the light, combined with the angle, gives everything a sense of... volume, he guesses. It's still not a dick for the ages. North would give it a seven out of ten, but only because he kind of _likes_ average. And, well, some points for it being attached to Agent New York. The guy wasn't bad looking, and he had great abs.

Connecticut hums. "Yeah, this was a real operation. A lot of thought went into staging it."

"That's--" North glances down at his hands. " _How_ do I make it go away?"

Connecticut hands the tablet back. "Just give it a few minutes. He won't, like, disable your mobile or anything. He's just kind of an attention whore."

"Oh," North says, and stuffs the mobile into his cargo pants pocket, screen towards his leg so it doesn't leak light. Tries not to think about how that image is technically flush with his body, how the real thing would feel rubbing at his thigh through the fabric.

"It's sexual harassment," South grumps, and then freezes in place like a startled animal when Agent Connecticut reaches across the table to pat her on the wrist.

"He's harmless," she says, and goes back to her meal, seemingly oblivious to the effect she has on North's sister.

Later on, when he's back in the bunk, North pulls the pad back out. The screen is blank, refreshing his desktop over and over. He's a little disappointed. Wouldn't have minded a chance to get a better look.

But South was right. The whole thing was just... inappropriate.

In the bed across the room, Agent Maine is lying on his back with his massive arms folded over his chest like he's in a coffin. North figures it's habit; he'd had to find some creative sleeping solutions back in Basic, too, where the regulation beds were so short his feet hung off the edges. Poor Maine probably had the same problem, but width as well as length-wise.

Even when it comes to the little things, North reflects, there's always someone worse off than you are. He tries to remember that. It helps him stay patient. Speaking of which--

"Hey, Maine."

A short huff, breaking the rhythm of the man's slow, deep at-rest breathing rate.

"Do you know Agent York well?"

Maine snores, loudly. Then he rolls over onto his side, presenting North with his back.

"Right," North says "I'll let you sleep, then."

 

* * *

 

The high grav gym in Sector Four is a killer. Agent Carolina warned him, but North didn't listen. 'It creeps up on you," she'd said. "Go easy until you're used to it. It's easy to over-exert."

North's feeling sufficiently crept up on, and more than sufficiently exerted, by the time he makes it to the showers. _Everything_ hurts. He's already dreading tomorrow morning, but maybe he can forestall some of the agony with a hot shower now, rather than later. Too bad the showers are, unlike the rest of the machines in the little Freelancer-only facility, completely inscrutable.

North's too tired to imagine how he must look, buck naked and poking at a featureless metal disk on the wall. He can see the shower head. There's just no faucet. This thing, whatever it is, is where the faucet should be, and he needs to figure it out fast because his arms are exhausted and don't want to stay up above his waist.

"Need a hand?"

North's too tired for surprise. He hadn't noticed Agent York come in; he must have been the reason why the pressure pod at the far end of the room was red-lit for 'occupied'.

"I guess? How does this thing work?"

Agent York doesn't laugh at him, which is what North was expecting, just steps up next to him on the tile and grabs North by the hand. "Here. It's pressure activated, but you have to depress the whole plate."

He presses North's hand, palm open, onto the metal and sure enough water hisses out of the nozzle, drizzling down over North's neck and back. When York lets up, though, the flow stops. North groans. "Why?"

"Beats me." York shifts over to the next shower head, stretches his arms up over his head with a mighty yawn. "They're not usually so skimpy about water. But this whole Sector's old." He turns to North, grinning. North makes sure he focuses on that. "You're not used to ships, huh?"

"I-- no." North leans in on the pressure plate with his left hand and scrambles with the soap dispenser with his right. Water sluices over him; it's lukewarm, and there doesn't seem to be any way to change the temperature. "This is my first space-side assignment."

"Earther, right?" York calls, over the hiss of water.

North glances over, lathering under his arms. "Yeah, Irkutsk. Russia. How'd you know?" Agent York is the infiltration specialist, he knows, and he clearly has the ability to hack into North's mobile. He's uncomfortable with the idea all of a sudden-- has York seen his files? Has he seen South's?

York winks at him. "North from the North, huh. But you hardly ever see uncut guys, so I figured."

North whips his head back to stare at the wall. "Oh," he mumbles, feeling his face heat up. York sounds very casual about it, almost disinterested, except for the wink.

North lets his gaze drift over, just for a second, just to make sure. Yeah. That's definitely his digital visitor. May as well get this over with.

North clears his throat. "Speaking of which, I should tell you-- I'd appreciate it if you didn't send me any more inappropriate pictures."

The water to his left cuts off. "Wasn't aware I had."

North frowns, rubs furiously at his hair under the spray. The soap from the dispenser will have to do for shampoo. "Well, someone did. And it was definitely your dick."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive."

York sighs. "Well, you know. Those pictures just kind of. Circulate."

"Uh huh." North says, dryly. "No offense, but I'm not convinced the demand for dick pics is really that high around here. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"See, that's where you're wrong. The fact that they circulate is evidence the market exists." He grins. "Although, interesting you looked closely enough, to tell it was mine."

North can feel himself blushing, and he leans down to get at his legs. That it hides his face from York is only a bonus. "Hard not to, when it takes up the whole screen."

"Yeah? So, what did you think?"

"Seriously?" North has to look up, then, the _nerve_ of this guy. "Four of ten, in the right light."

"Ouch." York's still grinning down at him, bright white teeth. He doesn't look offended in the slightest. "Guess you got pretty high standards, huh Klondike?"

"Not at all."

"You're killing me here, bro." York splays his palm over his heart theatrically. "Cut me deep, why don't you?"

North chuckles. "You know what, you're right. Five and a half. The confidence helps."

"Much better." The water on York's side cuts off, and he wanders out into the locker room proper, dripping. "I'd hate to be below average. Might hurt my market share, with you and Maine around." The sound of a door banging open, and numerous somethings cascading onto the floor. North can identify boots, and probably a bag. "Shit. I'll see you later, man."

North just rolls his eyes and returns to scrubbing. That was at least relatively painless, which is probably more than he'll be able to say for the next few days. He can already feel his hamstrings starting to complain.

Too bad FILSS hadn't warned him to _always_ listen to Agent Carolina.

* * *

 

North's third week on board is blissfully dick-free, at least the genital kind. As it turns out most, if not all, of his teammates are dicks of a very different order.

"That's eight, Ivan," Wyoming booms over the main comm line, which North had discovered early on was not, in fact, used exclusively for emergencies. "Eight targets, eight shells, isn't it curious how that works?"

"If he doesn't stop calling me that," North hisses at South, backed up against a warthog wreck and trying his damnest to find a clear shot through the rubble "I'm going to shave off his mustache while he sleeps."

"You can try," someone who is not his sister says, their voice low-fi and crackly but getting clearer by the second "he doesn't sleep, I don't think. Or he just does it with his eyes open, I don't know, it's a spook thing."

"Fuck off, York," South shouts, from where she's tacking C-4 and detcord along the door frame of their target's East entry point, shotgun strapped to her back.

"Oh, sorry," York says, not sounding sorry at all "was this supposed to be an encrypted channel, because--"

"Nine," Wyoming says in all of their ears, rather too cheerily. "I say, Ivan, perhaps you should have just stayed home, today. I thought you were looking a little peaked."

North spies the domed ridge of a CH252 helmet bobbing along his sight-line, and follows the mark with his scope, timing the man's stride. He's headed for South and York, in the East quad, running now and this is as good of a shot as North's going to get, he _hates_ being on foot--

North puts a round in his throat at the same moment the man's visor shatters outward, blasted clean through from behind.

"And that makes ten."

North inhales slowly as he reloads, watches the mark slump down to his knees and then forward onto his face in the dirt. Exhales.

"Easy there, buddy," York says, on the not-so-private line "I'm serious, even if you _could_ do it it would just be there again in the morning, full grown and glorious. Better men than you or I have tried, and failed, to police the 'stache."

"If you're all finished measuring your tiny--" that's CT, over at the West quad covering their exit. "Fuck. South, York, I got movement inside the building, coming your way."

"How many?" South grunts, and North can see her through the visor now, no HUD needed. She's vaulting back over her cover, another Hog up on blocks in the yard, trailing the end of the detcord coil.

"At least twelve, first floor."

"What a fuckin' surprise," South says, jerking her head across the yard at York, who's ducking _his_ head down behind a stack of concrete and rebar traffic dividers. "Guess someone tripped an alarm in that lock after all."

"I swear to God," York groans, steadying his sights on the door at eye-height, right in the middle of the ring of explosives "there was no alarm. I pulled out as soon as I--"

"Wow," North says, unable to stop himself. "That doesn't actually work, York. Don't spacers have sex ed?"

"Eight up front, four converging, you've got twenty seconds max," CT shouts, and yeah, North is gonna suffer for that one, later. He can already feel South burning holes in his shoulder with her glare. He checks his windage one more time, eases down to get his sights steady.

"Come on, baby," South mutters, finger twitching on the cord. "Bottle-neck them for me."

"Ten. Eight. Five--"

Dust under the door stirs; the front panel, where York had knelt to get at the lock, shifts open a centimeter. South's already hit the detonator by the time North opens his mouth, and then the wall is blasting out, filling North's field of vision with light and smoke. He swaps the HUD to electronics; those CH252 variants have very poor shielding, and dots are popping up all over the ground, radios chittering and scans blaring alerts. North starts taking pot shots at anything that moves, and from the sound of it South and York are, too.

By the time the smoke clears, they've got a handy little pile of guards in what's left of the blown-out door.

South racks her shotgun and stands up from behind the Hog, rolling her shoulders. "How many was that again, Connie?"

"Fourteen total," CT says, over the main line. "I'm not seeing too much activity inside. I think you pretty much cleared them out. Heads up on your two-o'clock."

"Infiltration's overrated," South says, and blasts clean through the vest of a straggling guard as he rounds the corner. "Fifteen, then. I think someone owes me a beer."

"I admit defeat," Wyoming says. "If only for the moment."

"Hey now," York protests, from behind his makeshift fort "this was a team effort."

"You wanna find cause of death for each of these poor bastards?" South toes at a stray limb with her boot. "Be my guest. I'm gonna go upstairs and hack some shit. Bro, take Butterfingers here and cover me."

North's more than happy to oblige. "Come on, York." He stoops down to retrieve an SMG from one of their unfortunate greeters, checks and then reloads the clip. Next time he gets a ground assignment, he's not bringing the rifle.

"You know," York says, as they pace down the halls, checking corners and listening to South run through blueprints with CT on the open comm, "she's hurtful, your sister. I'm hurt. This is worse than that time you insulted my dick."

"I did _not_." He says it automatically. He can't help it. He's a little hyped on adrenaline.

"You so did, bro."

" _Bro_ ," North rolls his eyes, drawing it out for additional sarcastic emphasis "I just said that I didn't need to see your dick on my handheld. I didn't need to see your dick at all, actually."

"See, this is what I mean. You've hurt his feelings. He's a nice guy, okay? He just likes to feel needed."

North snorts. "You're unbelievable." He's starting to enjoy the banter, despite himself. Everyone here is awful, sure, but they're managing to all be awful together. As a team. It's a new, delicate arrangement for sure, but he likes it. Feels like he and South could belong here, if they wanted to.

"I just think you should give him a second chance, is all." York continues, covering North's left as they exit a stairwell into an open room "Maybe it wasn't his best showing. He can be a little shy."

"'Shy' isn't a word I'd use," North retorts, scanning the floor. Almost no furniture up here, some kind of storage area. There's towers in the corner, and South heads right for them. "'Little' works, though."

York's mock gasp crackles over the line. "Uncalled for. Seriously, bro. I think you owe him an apology."

"Uh huh."

"Yuh huh. In person, preferably. More sincere, that way."

"I'll pass."

South's waving him over to the far terminal, hand up to her receiver. York sets his back to the both of them, facing the stairwell with his SMG ready. It's probably automatic; they haven't encountered any more resistance.

"Rude," York says.

"So they tell me." North turns back to his sister. She's got her hands clenched the way she does when something technological isn't cooperating. Uh oh. Also means it'll be completely opaque to North, who has trouble operating the hot plates in the mess. He swaps to the open line. "Hey, get over here, Butterfingers. We could use your expertise."

"I'm just gonna let that one go," York says, which North thinks is quite gracious of him, considering. "Because I'm the bigger man. You know. Metaphorically." He shoulders the SMG and strides over to lean on the tower. "Yikes. This is ancient. Might need a minute."

"Wow. A _whole_ minute," South drawls, and folds her arms across her chest. "Sounds about right."

"See? Hurtful."

"Try to get _her_ to apologize in person," North says, glad that the helmet hides his smile "and you'll learn what hurt really is."

 

* * *

 

The next image shows up three hours after their debrief. North's still a little twitchy from combat and his board score ticked down two whole percent, while Wyoming's went up by nearly three and a half. It isn't fair-- of course Wyoming would do better, safe up in his perch across the block with his rifle steady and his targets idling at their desks. As far as North is concerned, how efficient you are picking off office workers through windows isn't a good indicator of active sniper skill. But he also knows in his heart that he's had an off day. He's used to working just with his sister-- with so many new factors, new styles, new personalities, he's bound to need some time to adjust.

Besides, South's score had ticked up by four percent, and as far as North's concerned that makes up for a lot. Is worth celebrating, even, which is why he and his sister are currently propped up against the wall of her bunk, passing a contraband bottle of fortified wine back and forth. He didn't ask South where it came from, but suspects her friend the Pelican pilot was involved.

So North is in a well enough, if slightly tipsy, mood when his data pad beeps at 2300 and the screen fills with a full-color, high resolution image of Agent York's crotch. At least this time it's clothed. Barely. York is wearing regulation MOI gym shorts, which are loose and microfiber and usually cover more than enough skin for modesty's sake, provided you aren't lying down with the fabric rucked up to your groin with a camera propped between your legs, which of course York _is_. He doesn't appear to be wearing a jock strap or any kind of underwear, either, not that North can _see_ anything really, just that if he _had_ been wearing one there would be white elastic cotton at a certain point on his thigh, and there very much is not.

 

  


 

 

But there's also no dick. Technically.

South leans her head on his shoulder and stares down at the data pad. "Is he seriously still sending you--"

"No?" North taps at the screen. It's useless, of course.

"Oh my god," she breathes, reaching for the bottle. It's mostly empty. "You've been _encouraging_ him. You _like_ him."

"I don't--" North starts, and South very artfully blows a wet raspberry onto his collar. "Ugh, fine. I don't _dislike_ him."

"You _dicklike_ him," she declares, pointing (for emphasis?) at North's socks. "You like his _dick_."

Something on the screen shifts, and North glances back down, praying that the not-actually-a-dick pic will have vanished and he will escape the ribbing that is sure to follow. South never forgets the dumb things North does when they're drunk. It's unfair.

But no, York's crotch is still there. Just at a different, but no less suggestive, angle. The microfiber shorts shift when he moves.

"It's _video_?!" South actually squeaks. "Ugh, ew, no, is he gonna strip or something, are you guys _sexting_?"

"I told him not to send me any more _pictures_ ," North realizes, with creeping horror.

"Gimme." South leans across North's lap to get at her balled-up jacket, unzipping the pocket. She fumbles loudly through spare creds and shells, coming back up with her own mobile. North notices when she turns it on that there's a skull-and-bones design etched messily into the back panel. Go figure.

"S'not regulation," North mutters, and she knees him in the thigh. He chooses to believe it was accidental.

"Voice to Agent New York," South slurs, swiping at the screen. "Quit sexting my little bro, no one wants to see your toothpick dick--" she cranes her head around to glare at North.  "Okay, maybe someone does, but he's a big gay idiot and I don't wanna suffer for his poor fuckin' life choi--ah, fuck. I hit the. Hit the thing."

The pad beeps. "Voice Sent," FILSS, or some minor FILSS component, chirps from the speaker.

A moment later, North's datapad goes dark. Then a text message pops up. York, of course.

North opens it.

_Are you guys drunk?_ It reads.

North stares down at the screen. "Are we drunk?"

"Kinda," South grunts, settling in splayed over North's lap like she has no intention of moving. "Floor's cold. Imma sleep here, kay?"

_yes_ he taps back, with only his thumbs. Then, because the message box looks sad and lonely with just that one little word in it (and he really is drunk), he adds: _no duck. tecnicalty._

_Disappointed?_

North's thumb, because he is drunk, skates over the screen to the 'y' key, but his good karma pays off for once and another text pops up, blocking him.

_Wait, don't answer that._

"Okay," North mumbles.

_Good work today. South too, you guys are pretty badass._

North stares, wondering how to compress 'I promise my aim is usually better and also please don't encourage her' into as few words as possible. He's very tired. Also drunk.

_Thnks_ , he types.

_Don't mention it. Get some sleep bro. ;) ranked CQC tomorrow_

_Fuck_ , North types, and "Fuck", North says aloud.

Somewhere in the area of his knee, South groans.

 

* * *

 

"South's running late," CT informs him, spreading cream cheese onto a toasted sesame seed bagel. "Unsurprisingly."

"Mm," North agrees, and throws back the dregs of his second cup of coffee. He got some toast in at some point. It will have to sustain him. Just the smell of syrup from Wash's tray at the other end of the table is making him nauseous.

"You've never had spacer sauce," CT notes, and eyes him up and down. "Niner, huh? That wasn't very nice of her."

"Huh?" North blinks blearily at her. He doesn't remember much of last night, just knows that he had a hell of a time getting his boots on this morning and he woke up with his mouth tasting like cough syrup and regret.

"Any spirits you find out here are gonna be repeatedly distilled," CT explains. "For more efficient shipping. Whatever Niner mixes her juice with, it's more or less pure ethanol."

North groans. "Oh. I guess that's why South called it 'Jet Fuel', huh?"

"Yeah, that's a pilot thing. All that sugar kind of masks it. Sometimes they'll throw some caffeine pills in, too. Just for the hell of it." She grins. "Pilots are _crazy_. Niner's actually pretty chill, believe it or not."

"No one tells me these things," North mutters. "The showers are weird, and the booze is weird, and the calendar is weird and there's no eggs--" He's not actually that broken up, about the eggs. Never liked them. But it's weird.

CT sips at her tea. "Right. I always forget you two are Earthers. You'll learn."

"So... where were _you_ last night?" North wonders, sorting through hazy memories of slumping onto South's bunk floor. They were being pretty loud. CT would have said something, if she'd been in the room.

"Just brushing up on some things," she says lightly. "Speaking of which, you're paired with Maine for ranks this afternoon. How's your floor work?"

North winces.

"Oh. Well. Just try to stay on your feet, then." CT finishes off her tea and sets the mug square in the center of her plate before taking the tray and standing up, half of her bagel caught on one finger like a giant breaded ring. "He won't hurt you too badly. Watch your neck."

"My neck?" North asks, although he's sure, at this point, that he doesn't really want to know.

"Worst risk of nerve damage," CT says, and turns on her heel.

Jesus Christ.

North's data pad beeps. He slides it out of his pocket and sets it in his lap, safely hidden from view by the table. It's a text message, from York. North's thumb hovers over the 'accept' button warily.

Oh, what the hell. He opens it.

 

  


 

 

It's an image. Not of a dick. The caption reads: Mallard Decoy, wood. 2057. Maurice Helman (1997-2062), American Museum of Folk Art, New York.

And underneath, in all caps:

_YES DUCK_

North feels himself frowning.

"What on Earth," he wonders aloud, and then pauses. Laughs.

At the far end of the table, Wash's head turns towards him. "What's so funny?"

"We're not _on_ Earth," North explains.

Wash squints at him. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Check with me after CQC," North suggests, and turns the data pad off, stuffing it back into his pocket. "If I'm still breathing." 

* * *

 

North knows it's just a coincidence that their first planet-side leave happens to fall right after the op at Bjorndal. But that doesn't make being left out feel like any less of a punishment. Earth is his home, and instead of introducing his friends to old world architecture and food and plant life he's stuck in the med bay under observation.

It's not even really necessary, is what bugs him the most. His chest is on the mend, and he's inured to most earth-side bacteria, so his risk of infection is probably lower than, say, Wash's, even with a few raw wounds. No, it's about the equipment, and he gets it, he really does, they all know what happened to Utah, but it's been three days and there's _nothing wrong with him_.

"Stop whining," he tells himself, and flips his pillow over to the cold side, smashing his face into the rough anti-microbial weave. The tab electrodes stuck to his back pull and pinch. He's bored as hell, so when his data pad chirps and the screen lights up he doesn't think twice about reaching for it.

It's South, of course. As far as North knows she's still angry at him. But anything is better than counting the tiles in the ceiling again, so he accepts the transmission and steels himself for another round of creative verbal abuse.

He's hit by a wall of sound, deep and complex and just familiar enough to make his chest ache, somewhere below the wounds. Conversations, dozens of them, and he can pick out words here and there-- Tatar, Komi, Russian, Ukranian-- the rumble of idling gas engines, the sad whine of a garmon.  Dogs barking.

"Where the fuck are you?" South shouts, over a chorus of twangs and children screeching.

"Where are _you_?" North returns, completely thrown for a loop. "Is that a _kubyz_?" He can't see anything except her forehead, and the gray-blue sky behind her. It's daytime down there.

"We're in _rural hell_ ," South hisses, and the screen flips, scrambles, and then he's being treated to a swift panorama of, well, exactly what it sounds like. A day market. "I keep expecting to run into _Babulya_ , of all the places to drop us on the entire fucking planet it had to be the boonies, is this some kind of sick joke--"

"Hey, is that North?" Another blond head creeps onto the screen, immediately joined by a riot of freckles. "Dude, you lived here? This place is crazy! Gravity kind of sucks, though."

"That's not Irkutsk," North corrects, automatically. "Russia is very large, with dozens of subdivisions. Some of them are several times as big as the colony you grew up on."

"I meant Earth," Wash says, just as South says, much louder, "The boonies. They docked us in _Namsk_ , I do not want to spend my leave surrounded by _churches_ and _reindeer_ , Kolya--"

North sighs, heavily. "Believe me, I'd trade if I could. I'm stuck in medical, remember?"

"Ugh. Some help you are."

"Bring me some shashlik?" North pleads, closing his eyes. He can practically smell them. Street food. He hasn't had real lamb in years. 

And of course at the mention of meat, because York has surreal timing that North is still not one-hundred percent sure isn't hacking related, his mobile pings an incoming text message.

North squints down at the screen. It's already open, of course. York's messages tend to do that, or North's just so used to it by now that his thumb swipe is automatic. The former, surely; but in any event, it's York's fault. Not North's. He's a victim, here.

The message reads: _  
_

_Want Brazilian sausage? ;)_

"Hey," North says, interrupting a muffled back-and-forth between his sister and Wash about how there are _no girls in Namsk, Rookie, none, not a single girl,_ that are not old enough to be South's grandmother "Is York with you guys?"

South makes a gagging noise, which she does every time North mentions York lately, now that he thinks about it.

"Um. Why?" Wash asks.

North sighs. A month ago, he would have tried to find a more subtle way to say this. A month ago, he wasn't one of these terrible people. Not really. "Because I'm pretty sure he either has his dick out right now, or he mistakenly thinks you all are docked in the Southern Hemisphere."

"He _what_ ," Wash squeaks, and his blushing face is obscured by another alert, this one an incoming image. North glances up at the Recovery room's wall-mounted camera, remembers that FILSS reads, catalogs, and stores all of his mail anyway, and opens it.

"Oh ho _ho_ ," South crows, as North stares with growing confusion at a photograph of York standing at a food stall and holding what appears to be an actual sausage, covered in plastic wrap and longer than his arm "is he dick bombing you in _public_ now, where is he, I'm gonna go find a cop--"

"Belay that," North says, zooming the image in to see if he can make out the label. Sure enough-- _Linguica Brasil._ He pans upward to the top of the booth, where a sign in block Cyrillic reads: _Imported Meats_. Pans down again with his thumb, to York grinning goofily. He's in fatigues, patrol cap tucked under his elbow. He looks-- relaxed. Happy. Like a regular twenty-something guy with a kill-count of zero. "He's fine. And fully clothed."

"Good lord." North can practically hear South rolling her eyes. "Stop smiling like that, it's disgusting. You look like a stoned care bear."

North swipes the still photo away into a save folder, just because. It's no more effort than deleting it, and it's Earth; a memory, even if it isn't his. "I do not. I'm not--" he is. "Smiling. Shut up."

"You are, dude," Wash contributes, from off-screen. "What is it? Where is he?"

"Import section," North admits, trying to straighten out his face into a nice, safe grimace. He was miserable just a minute ago, it should be easy enough. "You all should stick together."

South's nose looms large, darkening the screen, and soon North is confronted with nothing but one pale blue eye with its furrowed, and even paler, brow. "I'm onto you," she whispers. "You want me to make sure he doesn't fuck anybody."

"Um." That hadn't been North's intention. Then again, it also hadn't occurred to him that York might try to get laid on his leave. It wasn't really anyone's business. "I just don't want him arrested for public indecency."

"Then stop encouraging him."

"I'm not--"

The eye blinks, slowly. It's the most sarcastic, sisterly blink he has ever seen in his life.

"Right," North says, much too loudly, and as if he isn't the only person in the room. "Stay safe, then, kids. See you later."

He hangs up to Wash shouting something about goats, and finds himself staring at the text message. Fucking York. Even the smiley face is charming. He feels his own mouth twitch up.

_Sausage looks nice_ , North taps out. _But Brazilian too small._

The reply is immediate. _Size isn't everything, you know._

Then, a moment later: _Also, is this you?_

North rereads it twice, then types in _??_ just as another image pops up.

It takes him a moment to determine what it is, he thinks a tree, at first; but he can see York's thumb in the corner of the image, and the scale isn't right.Turning the screen horizontal helps, and then the joke hits him, and he laughs.

 

  


 

 

[An image of a horseradish root, which bears an uncanny resemblance to a penis and balls]

Leave it to York to make a horseradish root look positively pornographic.

North reflexively starts in with _what are you, five??_ , but then he thinks about that stupid regular-guy grin, and he opens his camera application, turns the data pad so he can take a picture of himself, instead. He tries to get as little of the med bay in the frame as possible--he's not looking for sympathy-- and lifts his hand up to make a little pinching gesture with his thumb and forefinger, like he's holding up a grain of sand to see it better. Then he squints, for emphasis.

_Not me. Too small._

* * *

 

What North didn't realize at the time was that by responding with an image of his own, no matter how innocent, he had officially stepped into the dick pic arena. As far as York was concerned, his initial sally had been well, if belatedly, received. North was _playing along._

North doesn't really mind, is the thing. He told York not to send him pictures of his dick, and York hasn't. Technically. He just sends a lot of other things, ranging from the suggestive, to the embarrassing, to the bizarre. It's actually kind of fun, learning how York's brain works on that level: he's obsessed with visual puns, and while it isn't a kind of humor that North is very adept at (it sometimes takes him days to get the joke), he appreciates the lightheartedness of it. Lightheartedness has been hard to come by, lately.

Case in point: Agent Texas. And the grenade.

So when North hears from FILSS that Agent York has been moved from surgery into the Recovery Wing, and that North has an incoming message from him, North is more than a little alarmed when his data pad fills with an image of a half-mashed banana.

 

  


 

 

[Image of, you guessed it, an (unpeeled) banana with half of it mashed violently and splitting out of the peel, like someone stepped on it.]

_sympathy for a wounded soldier?_

North stares, for a moment. Replays Tex and York's fight in his head. Winces. Might shift his free hand in front of his own crotch sympathetically. Just a little bit. He's in the middle of the hallway, so.

_You're kidding me. How bad?_

_well im not gonna be making little New Yorks any time soon. not that I was planning on it._

"Thank god for that," North mumbles, out of sheer reflex. Then he takes a moment to feel ashamed of himself. York's hurt. It's not his fault that the idea of multiple Yorks roaming the galaxy unchecked strikes North as some kind of surreal, apocalyptic nightmare scenario. That was really, truly uncharitable. North knows better.

The data pad beeps again. North looks down.

_come kiss it better??_

North sighs. On second thought, he's been plenty charitable. He is a rational, reasonable human being, and he does not deserve this.

The message box flickers, over and over. Two incoming texts. Then four.

_Shit_

_shit did i send that_

_fuck that was too much wasnt it im sorry man_

_fuck im on a lot of drugs rn sorry_

North thinks again about that fight, about the kind of damage a grenade can do to the human body. Tex had shielded York as best she could, but he'd see the helmet before they carried him out of there. Rumor was he lost the eye, but he was in surgery again this morning, and according to CT they'd called in an aural specialist from the Angel.

_It's okay,_ he types back. _Get some rest._

_srs dude high as a kite_

_thanks_

North doesn't get any more messages from York until that night, well after North's undressed and settled down in his bunk. He has to feel around on the bedside table for the device, unwilling to turn a light back on.

_sry again_ , the text reads _i do dumb shit when im high always have_

North shakes his head. _Now_ York’s worried that he’s gone too far. He didn’t seem too worried three months ago, when he first sent photographs of his penis out to practical strangers.

_It's forgotten_ , North pecks out, squinting in the glow from the keyboard and turning onto his side so the light won't leak over into Maine's end of the room.

_oh. ok then_

_you awake?_

North frowns. Clearly he is. _Yes_.

_can you talk a while? could use a distraction_ _  
_

_All right._ North taps his fingers on the back of the data pad, unsure how to proceed. 'How's your eye' was probably not a safe bet. Ditto 'so are you deaf now?'. _Where did you get the banana?_

A pause. Then: _wash visited for lunch. nicked it off him_

North stifles his bark of surprised laughter in the crook of his arm. _  
_

_dont think he noticed? anyway im gonna lay it in the doorway for nurse ratched next time he comes by with his nightmare tube_

_just so you know if i die in here. it was probably that old battleaxe_

_old as a relative term im pretty sure he's mid 30s at the most_

_but the dude has seen too much, man. dead eyes_

_That so_ , North replies, although he gets the impression that replying isn't really necessary. _Go on._

He doesn't have to be up for a few hours, anyway.

* * *

 

Bravo's just set up their ambush on the shoulder, Wyoming idling ten yards above them perched on a sign structure, when a pair of police vehicles flood in from an off-ramp and form a barricade across the highway.

They're driving the wrong way for the lane. It's intentional. North holds his Magnum steady at the forehead of the driver closest to him through the windshield. The red light circling on the roof of the car makes him squint. The HUD adjusts, dimming it.

"They haven't been briefed," CT says, on the Team line. "God _damn_ it."

One of the car doors opens. A uniformed officer leans out. He's wearing a riot helmet.

CT steps forward and sideways, in front of North's line of sight on the driver. Doesn't matter. He's shifted his aim to the more immediate threat. "Sir, this is a UNSC operations zo--"

"We don't have time for this," North says. He doesn't pull the trigger, but there's a crack in the visor, anyway, clean through the door window. The officer slumps. Wyoming's shot him in the head.

CT freezes, for a fraction of a second. North only notices because he's watching, out of the corner of his eye. Then there's more of her. The Connecticut in front of him flickers.

North takes the driver with a shot through brown static, and Wyoming picks off the second car as it tries to back up, flailing on the steel median. Sirens start up from somewhere in front of them, louder by the second. Damn it.Their target _has_ to get to them first.

"They're civilians," CT says.

"ETA?" North snaps at Wyoming, his HUD frantically scanning the road behind them. It's empty. There hasn't been a car in more than thirty seconds. "Something's wrong--"

"They've stopped," Wyoming confirms. "Police barricade. They're redirecting traffic off the ramps."

"Damn it!" North paces left a step, then right. They're fucked. They don't have time. He doesn't know what to-- "Do you have the target in sight?"

"The vehicle. Not the target."

"Tinted windows?"

"Of course. But too many other engines, I can't get a heat outline."

"North," CT says, from behind him. "More cops inbound on our six. We have to--"

"Can you land a tracker?"

"Of course."

"Do it." He can see Wyoming shifting on his perch, unloading and reloading the rifle with a softer, transmitting round.

"The trunk," North orders. Less chance they'll notice.

Wyoming grumbles something that North doesn't make out, which is probably just as well. The stock settles on his shoulder. "Done."

"North." He can barely hear her over the sirens. They're loud, and she's gone quiet and strained.

"We're leaving. Reggie, get down here." North walks over to the nearest of the two cars, drags the first body out the open door. He's just got a hold on the second one (by the shoulders; undid his seat belt. No helmet on the driver. A mess. Civilians.) when a sniper round blasts through the window, zipping by his head. He flattens himself onto his stomach automatically, eyeing the hole in the shatterproof glass and calculating angle. From up ahead. Low.

Another shot, over his head. And another. North crawls backward by inches, dragging the driver by the shirt. CT grabs his ankles, pulls two grown men's worth of dead weight out onto the asphalt.

North stares up at her for a moment, through the film of civilian blood on his visor. Her helmet has always looked like it was judging him.

"Wyoming's hit," she says, short and sharp. "I'm going to grab him. Stay down."

North heaves himself up on his elbows, reaches for his rifle. "Wait." He'll cover her--

"He's in the open. _Stay down_ ," she hisses again, and darts off behind him in three different directions, pursued by a spray of bullets.

A round clips the hood of the police car. North chambers a round of his own and sinks down onto his stomach, aiming up under the chassis of the car. The sniper first. He's got to be-- there. Top of a car.

North headshots him. Reloads. There's at least four cars, all moving. All flashing lights. Civilians his ass. Maybe the first two, but not these guys.

CT lowers Wyoming down next to him. North spares him a glance, just to make sure his helmet isn't blown out; looks fine, but he's not moving. Fires again, inches wide on the driver of the closest car. Damn it. The driver jerks the wheel anyway, spinning off to the side. But he'll be back.

"How bad?"

CT grunts. She's climbing into the back seat of the police car, yanking something square down from the ceiling. First aid kit. Biofoam. Bad enough, then. Over the line. North pulls up the emergency panel on his HUD, keys in the code for immediate extraction. FILSS sends him a confirmation back within seconds. New mission parameters scatter across the screen. He'll drop down the board for this, but that's the price you pay for leadership. No one's dying on North's watch.

His op-wide radio buzzes. It's Carolina. _“_ Team B, report.”

The cars slow their approach; turn sideways. Open windows. Rifle barrels in those windows. North yanks CT down to the ground by the back of her belt plate.

“Come in, Team B!”

"Team B is down," North grits out. "We have wounded and are taking fire."

“We're on our way.”

"Negative--" North spares a glance at Wyoming again. The white-plated arm twitches. Good. "Secure the package. We set a tracker."

Carolina doesn't hesitate. “Good.” The radio cuts out.

CT's pressing something into Wyoming's abdomen with both hands. His head lolls on his shoulders. North sights under the carriage of the police car and starts taking out tires. They just need time, now. Extraction will have bigger guns.

_u hit?_

The message is prioritized like one from Control, but it's not FILSS.

One of the passenger side doors opens. A foot reaches down towards the tarmac. Standard issue Boondockers. A Marine's shoe. North shoots it off at the ankle.

_bro come on_

North huffs, incredulous. "Voice to Agent New York. No, Wyoming. Busy." _  
_

_ok good_

The rest of the Marine follows the boot, slumping slowly down onto the street. A hand slaps on the ground to balance him. North waits. Watches. _  
_

_i mean not good but_

"Busy, York." There. The man's head dips down as he tries to straighten himself. North shoots him straight through the temple, leaving a splash of blood on the door. _  
_

_don't die bro you still owe me an apology_

"Wow," North grumbles, chambering another round. "It's so nice to be needed."

CT's helmet tilts towards him, judging.

"Never mind."

He has a job to do.

* * *

 

After CT defects, the texts slow down.

North doesn't notice, at first-- he's worried about South, who seems to have taken her grief and forged it into anger far quicker than can be healthy. And he's talking to York face to face much more often than anyone else, lately-- South spends half her time at the range, and Wash has been sticking close to Maine-- Maine, who's been acting like a bear with a sore head (unkind, North reminds himself) and filling up the entire bunk with an air of silent menace that weighs uncomfortably on North. So he's steered clear there too, as much as he's able.

York's a little distracted, too-- Carolina, of course, but he's around-- it seems like North can't go for a stroll after 2200 without running into him, even in quiet, out-of-the-way areas of the ship: the crew kitchen behind the mess (chatting animatedly with Delta about Earth's crop diversity and the relative merits of root vegetables), the gear processing line (flirting with a hardlight technician old enough to be his mother), even back in engine control, floating on his back in zero-g and watching Delta run specs on heat expenditure. North didn't stick around long, that time-- the constant humming made his head hurt-- but York had smiled at him, waved without kicking himself over.

Still, North's surprised to see him in the Sector 4 gym at 0320 on a Saturday, not just because it's out of the way, but because the Sector 4 gym has been closed for months, now. North only sticks his head in because Theta's registering a consistent thumping noise and that's making it even harder than usual for him to settle down. North can't hear it, but Theta's acoustic sensitivity works through more than just North's ears-- he registers minute vibrations that North would mistake for the hum of an air filter or an engine. And there is a definite, almost angry, thumping coming from behind the door. It's a familiar sound, actually-- but South's asleep in her (now a single) bunk-- he checked.

Someone else is beating the holy hell out of a double-end bag, and North, never able to just let something go once his AI has expressed interest in it with all the curiosity appropriate to a five year old, leans around the door just in time to see said double-end bag snap back on the cable and strike York flat in the face.

"Jesus christ," North says, before he can stop himself.

York stumbles backward onto his rear foot and gets his gaurd up, swaying slightly. "Uh. Hi."

The bag swerves back and forth, gradually stilling.

"Are you--" _drunk_ , North thinks, because it takes a special level of stupid to get hit in the face with an inanimate object, and York is a more than proficient fighter even on bad days "-- all right, there?"

"Yeah, just--" York sniffs. His nose is bleeding. He's staring straight at North's collar bone, not meeting his eyes. "Ever notice how real life is a lot less bad ass than kung-fu movies?"

North squints at him. Waits.

York wipes at his nose and then waves the hand vaguely, seemingly unbothered by the thick smear of blood along the back of it. "Blind samurai shit, you know, fighting with sound and air movement? Forget it."

"Blind," North repeats, and then gets it. "You're trying to--" He steps forward, and York's gaze doesn't track with him, stays fixed on the door.

York shrugs. "Figure out how to work like this. Sick of being surprised." He taps a finger against his own right temple. "Delta can switch this sucker off for me. The brain is crazy, you know?"

"I know." North catches the bloody hand, and York jumps a little in place, startled. "Sorry. Come on and sit down. You look like shit."

York blinks rapidly, and finally the right eye snaps up to North's face. York smirks. "So do you. Insomnia?"

"Something like that." North coaxes him down onto the nearest weight bench, makes York tilt his head back and goes hunting for a towel. The gym is pretty much cleared out; all the free weights and kettles have been moved. There's no paper towels in the dispensers, either. North gives up after a minute and just strips off his T-shirt, balling it up and tossing it at York from across the room, who catches it deftly. "You're not so bad."

"Tell that to my ass," York mutters, unfolding the shirt. "Got hit with a fucking Warthog last week."

"I'm not telling your ass anything. I'm not speaking to any part of your body below the neck. Please use that." North gestures at the shirt.

York's mouth quirks up. "That's right. The apology you still owe my dick." He waves the shirt. "Mine's already a mess, dude, while I appreciate--"

North rolls his eyes and strides over, grabbing the shirt out of York's hands and applying it to his nose. "You talk too much."

"Mmmphh mm mpphh mpphh," York replies, into the fabric. His eyebrows are raised. He looks amused.

North holds the wadded up shirt there until he's reasonably certain the flow has stopped, resisting the urge to pet York's hair back into place while he's at it. York is warm and solid next to him, and North's remembering that he hasn't touched another person outside of combat in a long time. South hasn't exactly been in the mood for hugs--

Normally thoughts like that make Theta give a little pulse of sympathy, but there's nothing. North feels himself relax slightly as he checks. Good. Little guy is finally asleep, curiosity satisfied. And he often finds North's discussions with other adults quite boring.

When he lets go, York's smiling at him, a little crooked. There's a faint rusty, crackling smear from his nose to his chin, but no new blood. "Last time someone stuffed a rag in my face it was a snatch and grab," he says, too cheerfully. "Am I gonna wake up chained to your radiator?"

"What's a radiator?" North asks, forcing his mouth flat. "Some kind of spacer sex thing?" He knows perfectly well what a radiator is; his grandmother's farmhouse ran off a diesel generator. He and South used to fight over who got to set their sleeping bag closer to it at night.

York laughs, and for a second he's got that regular-guy expression back, the one he had in the picture at the market. "Bro, I didn't go there, you did." He thumps North lightly on the bare chest with a loose fist. "And coming in here to strip, huh? You are frust-ra-ted."

North makes a disgusted noise in his throat, and shifts a few inches away from York on the bench. "Oh, suck my dick." It was probably true-- probably true for any given person on the ship-- but that didn't mean he appreciated being teased about it.

"Dude," York says, leaning into North's side and immediately reclaiming the small space between them "I have been _trying_." He rests his cheek and temple against North's upper arm, over North's old unit tattoo.

North stares down at the top of his head in silence, the non-regulation hair in disarray, the thick scarring branching out from York's eye all along his cheek and forehead. It's still pink and thin in places that re-opened around the stitches, just beginning to heal over. York smells like sweat and blood; not particularly pleasant, but familiar. His unshaven jaw is sandpaper rough against North's skin. It’s-- nice. Very nice.

"Don't tell me you didn't know that," York says, after a long moment. "I mean. I've been pretty obvious."

"Are you telling me you don't send just _anybody_ pictures of wooden duck decoys and bananas?" North asks, not bothering to hide his smile. He hadn't been sure, actually. "As courtship rituals go, York--"

York elbows him in the side hard enough that North loses the rest of his sentence in an involuntary huff of air. "Dick."

"Plus, I haven't heard much from you, lately," North says. "Thought you might have lost interest in favor of skulking around the engine room. Or that hardlight tech, what's her name, Sonya?"

York doesn't say anything to that, but his body shifts, shoulders and back going tight.

North frowns. "I-- sorry." He doesn't know what for, exactly, but he's clearly said the wrong thing.

York's shoulders relax by increments, too slow and even to be unforced. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. Shoot."

York tilts his head, leans just far enough away to reach his hand up and rest it just under the ribbon curled at the base of the tattoo. M-EDF 9. No division and no battalion number, but the jackal with his thick leatherneck collar was well known among special ops folks, and North has his suspicions that York has seen the service records of everyone on the team. North also knows that he and South are not the only Freelancers whose former assignments involved pacifying human-- civilian-- populations.

York is not among their number, at least North doesn't think so. Not with the way he'd looked in the locker room after Levosia, asking North if it felt right to him, to be shooting at the police.

"Oh," North says, suddenly.

"I haven't asked you my question, yet," York mumbles, tracing the tail of the jackal. It's a devil's tail, thin and hairless with a spade at the end.

North sighs. "What do you want to know? Whether the end justifies the means? Whether I ever got a bad order? We all get bad orders, York, and those cops--"

"No." York cuts him off. "No, I just wanna know-- what's the most important thing? To you, I mean. The team? The job?"

"Family," North says. He doesn't even have to think about it. South, and now Theta. Everything else is transitory. Everything else, he can make do without. "Home."

"Cool," York says, and cups his hand around North's shoulder, slides it up the back of his neck, pulls him down close enough to kiss. It's quick and light; by the time North's thought to kiss back, he's already gone. "So, listen. Keep them close, all right? Next week or so." He hops up off the bench, scratches at his upper lip, where the blood is flaking. "I'm gonna get some shut-eye."

"O... kay." North doesn't know what else to say. Or how to communicate his disappointment. He feels very cold, all of a sudden.

"Cool," York repeats, and vanishes out the door and down the hall.

It's the last time North sees him.

* * *

 

The first floor of a two-family isn't tactically ideal, but it's what they can afford without stealing.

South is irritated about that, of course, but North had insisted, and it turns out she's not eager to take many risks, either. By the time they make it to Earth, and then to St. Petersberg, she's developed something of a nervous tic: always looking over her shoulder, even when they're alone. It gets a little bit better when they move out of the squat in Ekateringof Recreation Park into a real house, but the building is not easily defensible, and she spends too much of her time parked in the living room with her Magnum out, staring at the door or the windows. At least in North's opinion, which he voices. Often.

"Such concern," she snarls, without real anger, which also worries him, "from the guy who _kneecapped_ me."

"You came after me with a missile pod," North protests, setting a plate of steaming lamb pelmeni in front of her on the coffee table where she's stretched out on the sofa, her right knee still in a compression sleeve. "I had to defend myself." A year ago, he'd be irritated that they were still arguing about something like this. Now, he's just happy to have some excuse to get her talking.

"Wasn't gonna breach your damn hardlight," South grumbles, and pops a dumpling into her mouth. Then she makes a pained little sound and spits it back out into her hand. " _Hot_."

North sighs, moving back to the kitchen area to dish his own portion out into the upturned plastic cover of the take-out container. He leans with his elbows on the counter, stirring the dumplings with his finger to help them cool. "I'd really like you to see someone."

"Yeah," South says, gingerly nibbling on the end of the dumpling, apparently undeterred by her scalded tongue. "Sure. I'll just tell some sandcrab _feelings_ doctor all about my illustrious fucking military career in that not-so-secret experimental division they got blowing up in the news. They'll either think I'm crazy and put me in the bin, or _believe_ me and put me in jail."

She does have a point. But. "You're hallucinating."

South barks a laugh. "Seriously? Yesterday I was just ‘paranoid’, today I'm ‘hallucinating’. What changed, _Doctor_ Lysenko, in your professional fucking opinion?"

In North's _professional_ opinion, they both need to find something to do beyond just sitting around pretending to be civilians. But that's not a good idea for a lot of reasons. And they have to transition out sometime; he's _always_ known that. "You see her around every corner--"

South hums. "She's here. Has been for the past week." She swallows the bulk of the dumpling whole. "You wouldn't know. You've never seen what she looks like, under the helmet."

"South--"

His mobile buzzes on the counter next to him. North frowns down at it, and across the room South's gone still and quiet. After the third ring she grabs her sidearm from the coffee table, slides off the couch and slinks into the nearest cover, glancing out each of the windows in turn. Normally North would tell her to relax, but she's the only one with his number.

"Theta," North asks, staring at the mobile screen. It's gone black, where there should be a display. "Can you tell who that is?"

_Um_. North can feel the AI reaching out towards the mobile, trying to interface with it and failing. The screen flickers pink, then black, and then it clears, revealing a fullscreen photograph.

 

  


 

 

North thinks it's a bullet at first, rusted blue and orange, but then he realizes that the square objects at the base of it are _buildings_. The thing itself is a building, a ridiculous, gleaming cylindrical skyscraper that narrows at the top into a bulbous dome. It looks like a giant glass dildo, and North's laughing before he can stop himself.

Theta radiates confusion and dismay. _I'm sorry! Someone else is already here, they're locking me out!_

"That's okay, buddy," North chokes, waving South over. She purses her lips, giving him a sour look in return. "I think it's a friend of ours."

The image shrinks to half its original size and slides off into the corner. A text pops up below it:

_Torre Agbar in Barcelona. 144.4 meters. Built 1999-2004, retrofitted 2208. Voted Earth's Most Phallic Building in 2209._

"Riveting," North says, hoping that York is listening somewhere on the other end to appreciate his sarcasm. Probably not. "I learned something new today."

A second text pops up under the first. _  
_

_meet me? lobby Jan 12 0900_

"That's two days from now," North says, dryly. "Everyone forgets how big Earth is." Technically it's not that far from St. Petersburg to Barcelona, but for all York knows, they're in Anadyr, on the other side of the country. Practically the other side of the world.

_i'll wait_

_Oh_ , Theta says, and he's so excited that he projects accidentally as soon as he manages to take hold of the mobile's light hub, spilling himself in a bright burst of fireworks and static onto the counter. _It's Delta!_

South does come over, then, apparently satisfied that no one's casing the house. She's still holding the pistol, though. "Is that who I think it is? Ew." She makes a face at the mobile. "What the fuck, that's hideous."

_i couldnt call till now. tex stuff_

_please man i miss you_

_im sorry i didnt say goodbye she didnt want to involve anyone else if we could help it_

North feels the blush start on his face and run up though his ears and down his neck. He's been trying not to think about York, these last few months. Chances were that he was dead, and even if he wasn't, there wasn't much reason to think that York was actually interested. One quick kiss in an abandoned gym at fuck all in the morning did not a relationship make, no matter what North had wanted.

"Wowwwww," South drawls, with her _most_ unimpressed voice. "He didn't say goodbye? Were you guys in the 'saying goodbye before missions' stage of gaying it up, because I didn't get the memo."

"Neither did I," North admits, and licks his lips. He's nervous. His hand hovers over the touchscreen, and he forces himself to drag the keypad up, types in: _We'll be there_. Theta pulses with excitement.

" _Will_ we," South says, folding her arms across her chest. "What happened to the Family Conference before making big decisions?"

York replies almost instantly: _fuck yes!_

North tries, belatedly, to cover the expletive with his hand, since Theta is leaning over the datapad curiously. Not like it makes any difference, with South around, but North has to at least _try_ to reinforce the rules about no cursing in front of the kid.

The texts start piling in under his palm, and he moves it away.

_anyway d and i want to find everyone if we can_

_make it right_

_you guys dont have to help w/ that if you dont want  
_

_i just need to see you_

South makes a disgusted noise, and rolls her eyes. She's not really angry, though. North can tell. She keeps shifting her gaze away from him, which she only does when she's trying to hide something, like a soft look or an involuntary smile.

_oh hey is South there_

_Yes_ , North keys back. He can't keep his own smile in, at this point. He's remembering that last conversation with York, there in the gym. York hadn't said goodbye, but he had asked North what he valued most, and then helped make sure he kept it. It was such a weirdly... _selfless_ thing for York to do. He hadn't needed to. _We're all here. All three of us._

" _All three of us_ ", Theta repeats aloud, bouncing on his toes. The light hub flickers off, and he vanishes back into North's own, organic wiring, a soft pink push.

_sweet i thought so. anyway tex left something here for her_

Next to him, South straightens up so fast North gets tense just out of sympathetic habit. She has her war-face on, all cold alertness and readiness, coiled like a snake.

_Is she okay?_ Theta wonders. _  
_

_She's fine_ , North returns, although he's not sure that's true.

The pad flickers. _said it was something she should see. a recording i think_

But surely York had looked at it. He wouldn't be able to resist. _You think?_

York takes a moment. _believe it or not bro i can't get the thing unlocked_

_not even d can. ive never seen anything like it but she seemed to think south would know how_

North looks over at her automatically. South's jaw is clenched, and her hands are shaking in her pockets. She's set the pistol down on the counter. As North watches, a tendon in her throat jumps.

"I do," she says, roughly. "I do know how."

North steps towards her, meaning to try for a hug, but she shrugs him off the second he touches her arm. "I'm gonna go pack," she chokes, and vanishes into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The lock clicks. A moment later he hears drawers being pulled out and thrown to the floor, the thump of boots and tactical gear being thrown from the closet onto the bed.

_you there?_

_Yes_. North stares at the shut door, flummoxed. He hasn't seen South display any kind of intense emotion, positive _or_ negative, in a long time. It had worried him. He wasn't sure which one this was, or if it was even one or the other. _I think that was surprising news for her._

_really? i thought tex would get to you two before i did. but she left a copy with me anyway_

_Tex has been looking for her?_

_yeah man she took off for Mother Russia soon as we were done. i would have too but it was easier to just find your phone._

_It's a big place_ , North agrees, and has to go sit down on the sofa, datapad on his knees. He owes South an apology, apparently. Several apologies.

_yeah_

_so stop texting me and get going_

North smiles despite his unease. _It will be good to see you._ That was something of an understatement.

_yeah man im psyched. theres great coffee here too by the way ill get us some._

The door slams back open, and South steps out fully dressed, her button-up clearly covering an undershirt and a ceramic plate vest. North counts two firearms just from the front, and she's got a pump-action shotgun strapped over her shoulder along with the duffel bag. "Let's get going," she says, tying her hair up into a clean knot. Her face is pinker than usual, but he can't tell from here if she's been crying. "I know a guy at the airport."

"You do?"

"Shukhevych. He owes me a favor. It's what, a three hour flight?" She stalks over to the cabinets, selecting MREs and bottled water. North's not sure why, there's already a three-days supply in her go-bag.

"I guess?" North had assumed they'd have to take a car, for money reasons as much as safety. "Is there a reason you're armed to the teeth?"

South grins widely at him. It's a little frightening, but genuine. "Because once we find your boyfriend, I'm gonna go on a little scavenger hunt. Pretty sure he's got my first clue."

North frowns. "And Tex?"

South raises both eyebrows, as if to say _now who's paranoid?_ "And Tex is welcome to join me. If she can keep up."

North sighs. "Let me get my things." He glances back down at the datapad, that terrible bullet-slash-dildo building. South's pulling down grenades from the top of the refrigerator. Theta is buzzing anxiously.

It's just like old times.

_Better get started on that coffee,_ he types. _We're coming in hot._

The reply is immediate: _that's what she said ;)_

North bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, and goes to get his bag.  


End file.
